


Feedback loop

by CatRoofDance



Category: True Detective
Genre: (no I won't call this a blowjob because it isn't one tbh), Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Homophobic Language, M/M, Rough Sex, a LOT of swearing obviously, also, metaphor abuse mostly on Rust's side, which surprisingly isn't canon yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatRoofDance/pseuds/CatRoofDance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He thinks about the pure cocaine in the evidence locker down at the police station. He thinks about Crash who’s still there somewhere in his head. He thinks about Ginger and how fucked-up everything has been in those four years and how he somehow wishes he never quit the whole goddamn thing because, shit, he was good at being Crash, he really was."</p><p>In 1995 Rust tries to convince Marty to let him infiltrate the Iron Crusaders to get to Reggie Ledoux. All he needs is the box with stuff from his time as Crash, and a bag full of cocaine of course.</p><p>In 1992 Crash tries to convince Ginger that he's not an undercover cop, and he figures that letting himself get fucked could save his ass, ironically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feedback loop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elquist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elquist/gifts).



**Feedback loop  
**

 

 

_1995_

Marty is still fucking pissed, won’t stop cursing during the whole damn car ride to Rust’s place because “fuck, Rust, I don’t have a home anymore, where does that bitch want me to stay?” When they leave the car Marty slams the door shut so hard the window’s just about to crack but Rust still manages to stay calm as a goddamn Zen master, says “Man, don’t” and watches Marty open the door again just to smash it back into place a second time.

Rust can’t remember if Marty has been at his place before, wouldn’t matter anyway, he’s so angry he’s basically hating everything right now, even the fact that he’s breathing or that the night sky is dark, so he won’t stop listing all the things he hates about Rust’s place until he runs out of stuff and starts talking shit about the windows for simply being there. Rust offers him a beer anyway, without saying a single word and is at least a bit surprised when Marty suddenly smacks it out of his hand and starts pushing him hard against the counter while the bottle shatters on the ground, leaving a goddamn stinking mess on the carpet.

He remembers this position, Marty pushing him against a hard surface, his hands in a tight grip, his face so near he can feel the warmth of his breath. Yeah, they’ve been here before but then again Rust has been here before a lot, long before Marty even knew he existed.

Rust lifts his hands, says “Easy, Marty, easy” and tries his hardest to remain calm, to not push back, to fight his urge to free himself and break this fucker’s nose because to be honest he’s had enough of it at this point.

And Marty bends him a bit back over the counter, makes it real uncomfortable for his spine, and hisses “It’s your fault as well, you damn motherfucker, you with bringing all this tension into the family and all.”

“Hell Marty, you couldn’t fucking control yourself and now you’re looking for anyone to blame but yourself.”

Marty snorts. “Turned up fucking drunk to the first dinner, in front of the fucking kids, Rust.”

The edge of the counter presses into his back, a hard line across his spine. Marty slurs some more words, he’s already pretty wasted, his breath smelling of something high-proof, the cheap stuff that you only get at gas stations.

“Hasn’t anything to do with you fucking that woman,” Rust says and that seems to do the trick because Marty loosens his grip and leans back a bit, tries to look him in the eyes but has a real problem with focusing.

Behind him Rust can see the box now, the one with all his old stuff, stuff that belonged or better still belongs to Crash because who is he kidding, that guy is still in him somewhere, bad habits and addictions and all.

Might as well be him for a while again, Rust thinks, and means their case, and then this situation here, and then his whole goddamn life because things were somehow easier back then, even with all the crazy motherfuckers who would duct-tape you to a chair and feed you your own balls.

And Rust says “Listen Marty, we gotta talk about how we want to get to Reggie Ledoux, ok? We gotta talk about how we wanna get into the Iron Crusaders.”

And Marty nods and says “Yeah, yeah, alright” and takes a step back, and then he punches him in the face anyway.

 

 

_1992_

The punch hits him hard but doesn’t recognize in his brain because he’s high on so much stuff it’s a wonder he’s still standing up enough for people to hit his face. Even though he’s not feeling the pain he still realizes he’s staggering back quite a bit, so he lifts both his hands in a defensive gesture.

Ginger laughs like a maniac even though some of his knuckles obviously popped because if anything Crash has cheekbones that could kill a man, and the drugs just helped to line them out so you just can’t miss them.

“Fuck, what the hell man,” Crash says trying to find his balance but realizing after a while that he lost it long before Ginger punched the hell out of him. The hell in this case being lukewarm blood dripping out of a cut on his cheek. “What was that for?”

Ginger seems to be as wasted as he is but there’s still a serious glint in his eyes that says that this has nothing to do with two junkies beating the crap out of each other for fun. This is something else.

“You wanna know what I heard today, huh Crash?”

“Don’t wanna hear no fucking stories your Momma told you,” Crash slurs back. The guys he’s been drinking and doing some lines with before scrammed. Even their fogged minds know when to get the hell out of a place that is about to blow.

“Yeah yeah, you keep making your jokes, asshole,” and then Ginger somehow manages to fucking teleport himself seven feet in front of him and grabs the collar of his dirty shirt. “Won’t be making them when they’re peeling off the skin of your pretty face.”

He pushes him back against the wall, kicks some of the empty bottles on the ground aside, spills most of the not empty ones as well. Crash’s mind cleared up a bit, adrenalin kicking up real good and replacing some of the drugs in his head.

“Come on, man, we’re friends, ok, let us, let’s talk about this, man.”

“I’m not talking to a goddamn rat I don’t,” Ginger whispers, his face so close to his but not in the good way. Shit, Crash thinks, shit, shit shit. And Ginger hisses into his ear “I’m not talking to a motherfucking undercover cop.”

 

 

_1995_

“You wanna go in there as a motherfucking undercover cop?”

“Yeah,” is all Rust says and then he hands him another beer. This time Marty takes it, drinks it like he just ran a marathon and then starts peeling off the tag. “I know the Iron Crusaders, used to ride with them for a while, know their leader. If I can offer them something good they might even forget that I’m supposed to be dead and buried.”

“What now?”

Rust laughs a dry laugh and sits down on one of the two chairs that are standing alone and forgotten in the middle of the almost empty room. The box sits in front of him and inside everything that is left from four years being a motherfucker named Crash, everything but the hallucinations, those are still stuck in his head. He leans down and grabs a black leather jacket, reveals a gun and some grenades underneath it, and of course a small bottle of vodka and a bag full with white stuff.

Marty lets out a slow whistle when he sits down and sees the weapons. “What’s that, some kind of fucked-up time capsule?”

“Yeah,” Rust says and hands him the jacket, “like I needed a Hello from the past.”

“They told me you used to call yourself ‘Crash’ back in the days,” Marty says and smells the jacket, makes a surprised face when he finds out it smells of nothing he expected, just dust and two years in a box. “Doesn’t sound too philosophical to me, a bit disappointing I must say, Rust. Expected something more, y’know, meta or spiritual or some shit.”

“Like a guy called ‘Dalai Lama’ would’ve done any good.”

Marty lowers the jacket. “I see your point.”

Rust stares at him for a while, then he lights a cigarette, inhales the smoke deep into his lungs and finally blows it out his nostrils. It swirls up in front of his face, creates small circles and then some spirals. The air flickers, and behind it Marty knits his eyebrows.

“You ok?” he says but his voice is a faint echo at this point. Rust takes another drag, the cigarette tastes sweet and sour, the smoke is hot in his mouth.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says as he stares at the jacket and remembers what it felt like to wear it, and he feels his own hand clutching his throat.

 

 

_1992_

Ginger presses his fingers hard against his throat, has him pushed against the wall without using a lot of strength, just has his grip tight enough to let Crash know he could crush his windpipe any second. Crash knows he has to be real careful know with his next words. He swallows around Gingers fingers.

“Who the hell told you this bullshit?”

Maybe it’s the drugs or maybe it’s the fact that he has a goddamn talent for playing the victim but Ginger actually looks irritated, like he expected him to instantly confess. So instead of answering he just blinks two, three times, squints his eyes then and watches him carefully.

The fucked-up thing about this situation is that Crash’s actually turned on by this shit. Wouldn’t make a difference to him now if the hand around his throat were actually wrapped around his dick. The adrenalin is really kicking in now, blows his eyes wider than the drugs ever could, makes his senses sharp as a knife, makes the hairs stand on his arms and creates goose bumps where Ginger’s breathe ghosts over his neck and shoulder. He’s overwhelmingly aware of the fingers on his skin and his half-hard dick in his too tight jeans.

“Come on, Ginger,” he says and looks him in the eyes. Ginger’s face has a glow to it, it shines like being lit up by a fucking halo, and Crash doesn’t want to ever remember what mix of drugs he took today because people might as well never stop wearing halos for him from now on. “Y’know me, man. Y’know I’m one of the guys. Jesus, what we’ve been through, huh? Come on man, don’t be like this.”

Ginger furls his eyebrows, then he suddenly looks surprised as if he just realised whose throat he just threatened to crush between his fingers. He takes half a step back but doesn’t loosen his grip. Still, it suddenly gets way easier to breathe.

“Man, you had me worried there for a sec,” Crash says and lifts his hands, wraps them around Ginger’s arm but doesn’t push or pull.

“They were 100% sure,” Ginger says, “Told me everything about you.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Crash says and his fingertips slowly creep over the skin on Ginger’s arms.

“Told me you had a wife once. And a kid that got killed. Died in your arms, they said, everything was really fucking sad, I almost cried.”

“Do I look like a man for a child and a wife to you?” He’s whispering now. His hands reached Ginger’s neck, feels the pulse vibrate in the man’s throat, the heat on his skin, the little tremble, and he pulls him closer.

“No,” Ginger says, “Never thought you were the man for wife and kids.”

“That’s right,” he murmurs.

Suddenly one of Ginger’s hands is against his jaw bone, yanks his face so hard that he feels something pop in his neck, can practically feel the bruises blooming under the fingertips. And somehow all this makes him even harder.

Ginger presses against him in a swift move that would’ve surprised Crash if he had time to think about the logic of things right now. But his mind is pretty much occupied with having a knee shoved between his legs and consequently against the half-hard dick in his jeans, busy with a body roughly pressing him against the wall in his back and a tongue pushing hard into his mouth.

Crash’s hands are trapped between their bodies until they both gasp for air and Ginger leans back a bit. His lips feel bruised and dry, he licks them slowly, lifts his chin and watches Ginger through half-closed lids. The halo shines brighter now, makes it impossible to read his eyes, it’s almost too bright to even watch him, so Crash decides to look down to where his trembling fingers try to open his shirt.

 

 

_1995_

Rust unbuttons his shirt without breaking eye contact with Marty. Underneath he’s wearing one of his wife beaters. He pushes it up to his collarbone, reveals almost his whole chest. And three pale round scars right under his heart.

“Got myself shot but not without taking down three guys in return,” he says and Marty looks like he’s never seen a man walk away from a gunshot wound.

“Man,” he says, “that’s fucking close to the heart. Jesus. You’re not fucking around.” He leans forward on his chair like he’s trying to get a better view, then he reaches for Rust’s chest, fingers slowly stroking over the scarred skin like he had to make sure they weren’t painted on.

“They think I’m dead, so that’s a problem there,” Rust says, watching Marty’s fingers slide over his chest. “Need to tell them a convincing story so they trust me at least a bit, enough to make them take the bait.”

“Bait? You mean the ‘something good’ you mentioned?” Marty sits up in his chair again and side-eyes the box to their feet with Crash’s stuff in it. “The stuff’s in there?”

Rust pulls his wife beater back in place, doesn’t bother with the buttons of his shirt though. “Nah,” he shakes his head, “this is just some cheap stuff from back in the days. But I know for a fact that there is a bag full of the pure stuff down in the evidence locker.”

Marty sighs, then he stands up. “I don’t know, Rust,” he says and walks to the fridge in the kitchen to pick up another beer. When he finds there’s only canned beer left he grimaces but takes it anyway. “This sounds like we’re about to break an awful lot of fucking useless rules.”

“Yeah well,” Rust says, stands up and follows him into the kitchen where he gets a beer handed instantly. He opens it and shivers at the familiar cracking sound. “What do you say?”

Marty rubs his neck and sighs. “Shit,” he says, and then, “You sure you wanna do this? I mean with getting your balls cut off as a possibility and all?”

For a while Rust doesn’t answer, just twists the can in his hands, stares into the distance, right through Marty. “Y’know,” he finally says, “I got nothing to lose here. So I figured why not?”

“Jesus,” Marty laughs, and then he shakes his head. “You should listen to yourself sometimes. Might even do you some good, maybe makes you realize how depressing all this shit is that’s leaving your mouth. Makes one wanna help you with the suicide so you can rest in peace and quiet already.” He stares at Crash’s jacket still lying next to the box, the one with the three gunshot holes Rust never bothered to patch. Then he looks at Rust. “Jesus,” he says again but this time he nods, hesitant at first, stronger the second and third time.

Rust nods as well. “Alright then,” he says.

“There’s one thing though,” Marty says and somehow he got closer to Rust without him noticing. “The fuck you need my permission for this?”

 

 

_1992_

“You need a fucking permission or what?” Crash says right after he shrugged down his shirt, and Ginger doesn’t hesitate, comes forward again, this time for good, kisses him again, all tongue and teeth and blood, and begins to stroke Crash’s dick through his jeans. Crash’s hands are free this time and he fumbles with the fly on Ginger’s pants, feels the other’s dick pulse under his touch as well.

Ginger’s fingers are in his hair now, yanking his head back to expose his throat so he can suck on the sensitive skin, and when Crash finally frees his dick Ginger pushes him down on his knees, hands still gripping his hair in a tight fist.

Crash doesn’t think about it, just let’s himself being guided, opens his mouth so Ginger can push into him.

“Jesus, fuck,” Ginger hisses above him, his hips slowly grinding forward, pushing into the man under him, both hands now on his head.

Crash tries to breathe through his nose while Ginger’s dick pushes in and out, sometimes so deep into his throat that it makes his eyes tear up. The hands in his hair hold him tight, making it nearly impossible to escape the thrusts, and even though at one point stars are dancing in the corners of Crash’s vision and shadows are creeping in on him he still feels his own dick getting harder and harder. He gave up using his hands to guide Ginger’s hips so he starts to stroke himself while the other man pushes into his mouth in slow motions, pulling his head closer with every move forward.

Ginger above him breathes heavier every second, his movements becoming unstable and faster. He looks down on Crash, sees how he rubs over his crotch and laughs breathlessly. “You like that, huh, getting your face fucked, you sick bastard, you get off on this.”

 

 

_1995_

“You get off on this, right? On risking your useless ass, I mean.” Marty shakes his head in disbelief, eyes blown wide as if he’s been having one of those life-changing Buddha-type enlightenments. “Can’t do it without audience though, right, you need someone to see you getting blown apart, otherwise you’re just some fucking side note in the history book of fucked-up bullshitters.”

“You’re getting real good with your metaphors, Marty.”

“Fuck this, Rust. I won’t watch you walking into that place with a 90% chance of getting cut apart. I can think of a hell lot of better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than collecting bits and pieces of your ass scattered across a two mile radius because some drug lord wanted to make a fucking point.”

Rust sets the empty beer can down, straightens up a bit. Marty comes even closer, hands in an awkward floating position, not really loosely hanging besides his body, but not really reaching for Rust yet either.

“What do you care anyways?” Rust mumbles, looking straight into Marty’s eyes to find the answer because fuck him but he really doesn’t get it. Martin ‘fuck the rules I’m gonna bone a younger version of my wife and act all surprised when she isn’t fucking grateful when she finds out’ Hart is standing in his sad fucked-up version of a home acting all worried, like he actually cares. Doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Jeez, you’re looking at me like a deer in the headlights. I just don’t wanna see you fucker dead, is all,” Marty mumbles and then one of his hands reaches for Rust’s arm, the other one for his neck and then he is pulling him closer into some kind of half-hug that should be really awkward but somehow is quite the opposite.

Rust suddenly feels lighter, like he could stop holding his breath, or finally unclench his fists. He leans his head forward until it rests on Marty’s shoulder and for a while they don’t move, they just breathe.

And when Marty tries to take a step back at one point Rust holds him there, hand suddenly wound tight into Marty’s shirt.

“What?” Marty asks, voice trembling in slight confusion, and Rust just lifts his head and raises one hand to Marty’s jaw and holds it there. “Jesus, we gonna kiss now or what?”

It takes Marty exactly five seconds to realize what is happening, and then he grips Rust’s hands hard, pushes him away, his mouth a silent Oh, his eyes wide open in shock.

“What the fucking hell, man?” he shouts, and then after some seconds of thinking “I knew it. I knew there was a reason those girls we tried to hook you up with came back fucking confused.”

“Marty,” Rust says, trying to pull his arms away but Marty grips them even harder, holding him in place.

“No, no, seriously, what the hell, man? You thought this would turn out like one of those fucking rom-coms? Like, ‘husband gets dumped by wife and finds his true love in his partner’? The fuck, Rust. I ain’t like that.”

Rust inhales sharply through his teeth, stills in his movement completely, narrows his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, voice a rumbling whisper all of a sudden. He can feel the air rushing back into his body, slow and cold, feels like a snake slithering through his windpipe down into his lungs. “You ain’t like _what_ exactly?”

To Rust’s surprise Marty actually takes a moment to think about his words, and then he says “I ain’t no fucking queer like you, is what I mean.”

 

 

_1992_

“I knew you were a fucking queer,” Ginger says, his voice shaking from pleasure, when he finally pulls his dick out of Crash’s mouth, gripping the base tight to stop himself from coming too fast.

Crash just looks up and wipes his face with the back of his hand. “You gonna fuck me now or not,” he asks and Ginger laughs.

“Don’t expect me being all romantic and shit,” Ginger says and pushes him down until he lies on his back and he leans over him. His hand presses down hard onto Crash’s dick, makes him curve his spine upwards, makes him moan between words.

“Wasn’t going to,” Crash huffs out and his hands are at his own fly this time.

Before he can do anything though Ginger grabs his waist, flips him over in a rough motion, lifts his hips and presses down on his back with one hand.

“Hope you’re not the quiet kind,” he says and pulls Crash’s jeans down over his ass, reaches around him and finally frees Crash’s dick as well.

And Crash fucking _moans_ when Ginger touches him, then bends backwards with an obscene groan until Ginger pushes him back down, hand spread over the thin frame of his back, with the vertebras being countable through his pale skin. He can feel Ginger stroking himself hard again while he claws his fingers into the carpet that’s still dirty and wet from the spilled beer.

Ginger behind him finally spits into his hands and strokes his dick another two, three times but not really bothering with preparing Crash in any way. His other hand leaves Crash’s dick and he sighs at the loss of sensation, tries to push his hips against the ground to create some friction. But Ginger grabs his sides again, presses both hands deep into his flesh until he’s basically grabbing his hip bones, lifts him a bit up again and just when Crash tries to brace himself Ginger pushes into him in a fast move that makes him groan loudly, and his body inches forward in an unconscious attempt to escape the pain. But one of Ginger’s hands leaves his hip and comes to rest on his head again and pushes him down face first into the carpet.

When Ginger begins to move Crash realizes he’s not even in him to the hilt, still just teasing him with maybe two third of his length, but he already feels like being split in half. The pain travels through his spine straight up to his neck and skull where it leaves hot trails over his scalp and sends another wave of pleasure down to his dick.

“Damn Crash, loose up a bit, you’re tight as a bitch,” Ginger groans above him and slaps back into him, one hand still pushing him into the ground, the other one bruising his hip.

Crash can hardly breathe, with every inhale he gets only dust and the smell of year old beer soaking every fibre of that god damn carpet. He feels the skin of his cheek being burned by the constant rubbing, the same with his knees even though his jeans are still hardly pushed down over his ass.

Ginger pushes into him with all he got now, every thrust a sharp movement forwards. He laughs, tangles his hand into Crash’s hair, pulls at it sometimes, lifts his head and gives him room to take one, two deep breathes before he gets pushed down again.

Crash screams out every other time Ginger presses deep into him, mouth tasting the carpet now, voice muffled. His mind feels fuzzy, spirals and stars and blurry pictures swirling around in the dark and even in the short light moments when his head is yanked back. Ginger behind him glows like a fucking light bulb, became one fucking burning human-shaped hole in the room. He presses into him again. And again. And again. Makes it seem like he’s filling him up with not only his dick but everything else he got, like he wants to actually put the whole goddamn world into one person. And Crash loses all sense of time and all he can think is _please, please, please,_ and he isn’t sure if it’s the goddamn mantra of _never fucking stop_ or _let it be over._

And then the hand in his hair disappears, leaving just a prickling and burning on his scalp, and the fingers on his hipbone disappear as well, leaving drapes of bruises. Ginger breathes heavy above him, and then he pads his sweaty back and pulls his limp dick out of him, leaving him wet and damp.

It’s when he finds that he came without realizing it that the world comes crashing down onto him again, like the atmosphere collapsed onto earth, ready to crush everything into their smallest parts, atoms over atoms over atoms. But it’s not the atmosphere but Crash himself who just falls over, inhaling and exhaling like he’s still learning how to do it. It takes him full ten minutes to get his pulse back to a kinda normal pace, considering his system is still pumped to the brim with drugs. But he’s grateful for that right now because it means he won’t feel the pain for another six hours or so.

Ginger stands above him, jeans pulled up already, and kicks him lightly into the stomach.

“Come on, you fucker, get up,” he says and Crash slowly rolls over and eventually sits up with shaking knees. Actually manages to catch the cigarette Ginger tosses him, puts it between his teeth and waits till Ginger bends down to light the fucking thing.

 

 

_1995_

The smoke rises to the ceiling, a pleasant feeling of content fills Rust up, reaches deep down into his body, even to his bones.

“We gotta do it the end of this week. We don’t have much time before Ledoux knows we’re onto him and moves again, and this time we might not find him.”

Marty doesn’t say a thing, just stares at him, lost in thought. After a while he nods though and then adds “Yeah can’t bring you to not do it anyways, so what the hell.”

Rust actually chuckles at that, just a bit even though it feels weird and like something he never learned to do properly.

“Listen,” Rust finally says after he puts out his cigarette. “I won’t offer it a second time. This place is huge, and as you can see I’m not a fan of furniture as well. If you need a place to stay that isn’t a fucking motel down in the swamps, there’s a free room here.”

Marty sighs, looks out the window into the black night, only slightly lit up by street lamps outside the house. “Y’know Rust, I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to worry about me attacking you in your precious beauty sleep or something.” Marty actually smiles at that and turns his head to Rust. “But should you need a fuck just say the word,” Rust continues deadpan without blinking, “You don’t seem to have it in you, though.”

For a second there Marty stares at him with the smile frozen on his face but then he starts laughing. “Y’know, Rust, you might even be too fucked-up for me.”

And with that he leaves. Doesn’t even say a word of goodbye, just closes the door behind him. Rust stares at it for quite a while, and then at Crash’s jacket and the box. The atmosphere vibrates around his ears, tingles and makes his hairs stand up. There are faint whispers in his head but Rust knows they come and go. He lights another cigarette and bends down to pick up the bottle of vodka wedged between some grenades in the box. He sits down, leans back on one of his lonely chairs and takes a sip from the bottle, then another one.

He thinks about the pure cocaine in the evidence locker down at the police station. He thinks about Crash who’s still there somewhere in his head. He thinks about Ginger and how fucked-up everything has been in those four years and how he somehow wishes he never quit the whole goddamn thing because, shit, he was good at being Crash, he really was.

And then he thinks about how he drove Marty here from the hospital and that there are no busses at that time out here in the suburb, and then it knocks on the door so he gets up and without even looking through the spy hole he opens up and of course Marty is standing there.

And Rust says: “Coming back for the room, I guess.”

And Marty says: “Not exactly.”

“Oh,” Rust says and screws up the lid of the vodka bottle and puts it down right beside the door.

“But I swear to God, Rust, if you try to kiss me I’ll smash your fucking teeth in.”

“Yeah,” Rust says, “sounds reasonable to me.”

 

 

_1992_

“I knew you’re not an undercover cop,” Ginger says after another sip from his beer, leaning against the wall, Crash sitting beside him smoking his third cigarette in a row. “They’re not hiring fucked-up queers like you anyway.”

Crash nods. “Yeah,” he says, “sounds reasonable to me.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
